


Ghosts

by Karri



Series: Unfinished Business [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e01 Friends and Enemies, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-12 04:50:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4466045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karri/pseuds/Karri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Episode 1 Tags.</p><p>Chapter 1 - A busy day should equal a good night’s sleep, right?  Not when there are ghosts waiting for Aramis in the darkness.<br/>Chapter 2 - Aramis has his pistol back, but something feels...off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Adele! Adele! ADELE!" Aramis shouted. He knew in his heart it was in vain, but he couldn't quite stop himself. Gradually, though, Aramis grew aware of the amount of unwanted attention his shouts were garnering, and self-consciousness (as well as, self-preservation) overcame heartache.

Falling silent, Aramis turned away from Adele's apartment. He let his feet carry him toward the garrison more by habit than conscious thought, his mind too mired in swirling anguish to direct him.

It did not take much reasoning to comprehend what had happened. The cardinal had grown suspicious; thus, to alleviate his doubts, Adele had agreed to join him in the country. _She left me! Chose the Cardinal over me!_

"No!" Aramis murmured aloud, stopping abruptly. _She did not leave me! She was stolen away! Just as Isabel was stolen away!_

Anger replacing anguish, Aramis squared his shoulders and strode purposefully back to the garrison and to his quarters. The fiery spark had burnt out, though, by the time he stripped off his leathers. Between saving Athos and losing Adele, he was exhausted and flopped onto his bed, not caring that he was still mostly dressed.

Sleep found him quickly enough – nearly before his head hit the mattress. Rest, however, was another thing, altogether. His mind played relentlessly with the events of the day, mixing up the elements and piecing them back together haphazardly, until he'd tossed and turned his blankets into a tangled mess around him.

_ "Athos!" he shouted. The muskets were ready – aimed and cocked! They weren't going to make it! _

_ Bam! They fired so near in unison that it seemed one sound as the shock of his failure rocked him back on his heels. He froze, only for a breath, though, and then more tumbled than ran the remaining feet to his fallen brother. _

_ Gathering the limp body in his arms, Aramis ran a hand over Adele's curls, once so beautiful, now tangled haphazardly around her pale, lifeless face. She stared up at him with such shock, as though she'd never doubted he would save her. But he had failed! He had failed her! _

_ Unable to bare the accusation in her dead eyes any longer, Aramis pulled her to him and wept into her wimple. The chill air seemed to seep into his bones as he cried, and soon his arms ached from the effort of holding the stiff, frozen body up off the ground. Laying her down gently, he gazed into Isabel's sweet, innocent face. She seemed so peaceful, so angelic. There was no accusation in those eyes, only love, so much love. _

_ Love for him? How could that be? He'd failed her! She was dead because of HIM! How could there be any love left? He didn't deserve it! _

_ Unable to bear it, Aramis, stumbled back…and fell gracelessly onto his rump as he tripped over… What was it? _

_ His breath caught in his throat as he recognized it as a frozen arm. Scrambling away, he pushed himself to his feet and approached the frozen body, seeking a face to go with the arm. Cornay! It was Cornay! But he was supposed to find him! Bring him back! Cornay's dead eyes stared up at him from the frozen ground. He had failed! Failed again! _

_ Spinning away from the accusation in those eyes, Aramis nearly trod upon another body. A scream rose in his throat as he turned a slow circle that revealed bodies all around him—snow-covered, broken and bloodied, shock and accusation in their frozen faces. He had failed! Failed all of them! _

_ He tried to scramble away, but a hand caught at his boot. He followed it to another body; this one, different—not snow covered, but soot covered. As bleeding and broken as the others, this one was not yet lifeless or frozen. _

_ "Aramis," a weak voice called as a quivering hand reached out to him. _

_ But as Aramis moved toward the hand, another voice called from behind, "Aramis!" _

_ He tried to spin, tried to see from where the second voice had come, but then came a third, "Aramis!" _

_ He twisted around, trying to find them. They were dying! They needed him! He was failing…failing AGAIN! _

_ He stumbled. Falling…bam! His shoulder was on fire! But they needed him! No, no! They were dead! They were all dead! He had failed! _

Aramis woke gasping for air as tears trickled down his cheeks. _I'm on the floor,_ was his first coherent thought. His shoulder hurt, and he rubbed it distractedly. _I must have landed on it when I fell out of bed,_ he mused as he tried to rise.

Aramis quickly realized that his feet were too tangled in blankets. _That is what tripped me, not a dead friend,_ he reasoned, hoping calm logic would banish away the last vestiges of the nightmare. But as he freed himself from the blankets and stood, his heart still thudded with residual panic, and he knew there'd be no sleep for him again soon.

Aramis raked a hand through his unruly curls as he considered his options. _I could try to sleep. Even if it eludes me, I will still have some rest._ But the notion of closing his eyes again with all those ghosts waiting for him in the darkness made him shudder. _Perhaps a stroll and some fresh air…_ he decided. _I'm already dressed, afterall._

He wandered aimlessly from his quarters, or at least that had been his intent. Yet he found himself, as seemed so often the case when his mind was troubled, at the supper table. _This is foolish,_ he mused. _The ghosts will find as easily sitting here as sitting in my quarters._

He knew, though, why his feet had brought him here – Old Serge. The old soldier knew what it was to be plagued by ghosts, and somehow, whether he spoke of them or not, that made Aramis's own easier to bear.

_ Yet, it is the middle of the night. No one, not even the Captain, will be wandering around for hours yet, _ Aramis observed with a twinge of loneliness. _Athos is likely still curled up with a bottle. Porthos…he'll be curled up in his bed, if he's not found a card game to distract him from sleep._

He sucked in a slow, resigned breath. _There'll be no escaping my ghosts tonite, I fear, not with Adele gone away._

"Aramis?" came a questioning voice that had him twisting around to find the speaker.

"Serge," he replied, a smile on his lips and more than a little relief in his voice.

"Want some breakfast?" the old soldier-turned-cook asked amiably, as though it were a common place occurrence to have men at his table in the middle of the night.

_ I suppose for a time, it was, _ Aramis acknowledged. He'd spent quite a few nights avoiding his ghosts by sitting at this supper table after Savoy.

"Nothing ready yet, but I can whip something up right quick," Serge added.

"No, thank you," Aramis answered.

Serge replied with a nonchalant shrug, but the look in his eyes said differently, and Aramis smiled a little to himself, knowing the old soldier was on to him.

"May as well make yourself useful, then," Serge replied. "Got a whole pile of turnips that need peeling and slicing before the sun comes up and these lads start clamoring for their breakfast. Come on," he urged. "Busy hands, thems the best cure for what ails ya…"

To which Aramis could only nod, as he pushed himself to his feet and followed the old soldier to his kitchen, sleeves pushed up and hands ready to work.

The end.


	2. Retribution

oOoOoOoOoO

Aramis balanced his pistol in his hand, his head quirking as he concentrated on the weight of it.

“What’s that matter?” asked Porthos, as his friend’s brow furrowed in a look of displeasure.

“It feels…off,” Aramis replied, distractedly.

“Off?” Porthos echoed.  “’ere, let me see.” 

He held his hand out for the weapon, which Aramis promptly handed over to him, despite the amused raise of an eyebrow.  Porthos shrugged in response to it.  He could all but read the thought reflected in his friend’s eyes.  “I know, I know.  _You_ are the expert when it comes to these things, and it’s _your_ gun, so what am I gonna feel that _you_ don’t…”

Aramis replied with a quirk of the head and half-smile that told Porthos he’d interpreted his friend’s thought correctly.

“A second opinion never hurts…” Porthos responded, as he focused on the weapon now balanced in his own hand.  After a moment, he shrugged.  “Feels all right to me.”

Aramis frowned dubiously.  _It IS off.  I may not know exactly how, but there IS something…_

Porthos chuckled.  “You just don’t like that it was out of your sight for so long.”

Aramis shrugged lightly, as he admitted, “Perhaps you’re right.”

It always bothered him when his weapons were out of his possession and in someone else’s, even when that someone was as harmless as Adele.  _It’s not as though she would have had cause, or even desire, to use it.  Knowing Adele, she likely wrapped it up like some delicate treasure and tucked it away as a keepsake.”_

The thought of her doing just that made him smile.  She loved him, he was sure of it, despite her choice to go with the Cardinal.  But the world did not always allow a person to choose their heart’s desire over more practical needs.  The Cardinal had money.  He could give Adele the lavish lifestyle she wanted; Aramis could not.   It had come down to that simple reality.

Thus, Adele had returned the pistol to him, as much as a goodbye as anything.  There was no malice in it.  There was no reason to suspect she had, or would even know how to, tamper with the weapon.  Yet, there was something…

A clap on the shoulder pulled him from his reverie, and he looked up to find Porthos gazing at him thoughtfully.  “Why don’t you just give it a good cleaning and see if that does the trick?

“It’s loaded,” Aramis responded.  “Can’t clean it until I fire it.”

“And you don’t want to fire it, until you’ve cleaned it,” Porthos extrapolated, finally comprehending his friend’s dilemma.  The pistol was a finely-crafted, well-maintained thing of beauty, as were all of Aramis’s weapons.  Yet, if his friend couldn’t trust the weapon, it was useless.  “So, you gonna fire it, or get rid of it?  No point keeping it if you don’t dare use it.”

Aramis nodded, then sighed.  He hated to get rid of the weapon.  Memories of Adele aside, it was an excellent pistol, and replacing it with another of equal quality would not be easy.  “Can’t afford to get rid of it,” he finally admitted, “so I suppose I’ll fire it, and then give it a good cleaning and see it that sets it right again.”

“All right, then, let’s get on with it,” Porthos huffed, guiding his friend by the shoulder toward the training field.  “You’ve been pondering the thing for days now, so there’s no point putting it off any longer.  Might need it soon…”

Aramis quietly acquiesced. Dread had settled in his stomach as the decision was made, and with each step he took nearer the targets, the feeling grew.  _What are you worried about,_ he chided himself.  _It’s a good weapon, and I loaded it myself before leaving it at Adele’s, so… At worst, she fired it, and nothing will happen._

The argument did not to untie the growing knot, though.  Thus, Aramis hesitated as they reached the targets. 

Porthos had felt the growing tension in Aramis as they neared the targets, and that had him worrying now, as well, though he was not really certain about what.  _I’m not sure Aramis even knows what’s buggin’ him… but there’s definitely something, and his gut’s rarely wrong about these things._

“Come on!  Get on with it,” Porthos prodded, the nervous tension making him edgy.  He wanted this—whatever it was—over with.  “Athos will have drunk all the wine before we get there at this rate.” 

Aramis smiled, though it was strained, and replied, “As you wish.”

He aimed carefully, despite a huff of impatience from behind him.  “It may just be a test shot, but it’s still a shot, and there’s no point being careless with it.”

Porthos shook his head at that.  It was just like Aramis to need to hit his mark whether it mattered or not.  Still he found himself smiling affectionately at his friend, despite his slow, deliberate movements.  Then, finally, he saw Aramis’s finger tighten and tensed reflexively in expectation of the resultant shot. 

He wasn’t ready though, for the fury of sound and spark and smoke that followed as the barrel exploded into jagged, angry shards of metal that sent him flinching back, away from…  _Aramis!_ Wide, panicked eyes looked in the direction his friend had been standing.

Aramis hadn’t yet registered the explosion when his bottom landed in the dirt.  His senses were too busy attempting to process the brightness of the flame and the force of the concussion that had thrown him off his feet. 

He still hadn’t registered as he blinked several times, trying to clear the white flash of fire from his vision.  So he simply settled for clenching his eyes shut tightly as the sting of the smoke set in, making them water.  Flopping down onto his back, he tried to focus instead on piecing together what had just happened. 

“Aramis!” he heard Porthos shout, and considered opening his eyes again to find his friend.  _Never mind, if I just stay still, he’ll find me,_ he finally decided, as an ache began building behind his streaming eyes that made him reluctant to open them to the daylight. 

“Porthos!” he heard several other voices shout.  He registered the names that belonged to some of them—Athos, Treville, d’Artagnan, Serge—but the rest flowed past as his mind grew sluggish and dull.     _The barrel exploded,_ he finally registered, as the last of his consciousness slipped away in darkness. 

 

oOoOoOoOo

 

Consciousness returned by way of a dull ache behind his eyes, and Aramis moaned his disapproval of it.   He tried to lift his hand to cover them and block out the flickering light reflecting off his closed eyelids.  The hand was unexpectedly cumbersome, though, so he let it drop back to the bed and settled instead on turning his head away.

“Easy,” he heard Porthos soothe, and felt a big hand card through his hair.  “Athos…”

Aramis sighed as the light dimmed, not a lot, but enough for him to risk cracking his eyes open to see his friend sitting beside him.  “What…” he croaked, grimacing as fire laced up his throat.

“’ere, this will help,” Porthos offered, easing the hand in Aramis’s hair down to lift his head up and pressing a cup to his lips.

Aramis sipped at the water, wincing as he swallowed, but the burning eased, so he swallowed once more before turning his head away from the cup.  Letting his eyes fall shut, he could practically hear Porthos frown as his head was eased back onto the pillow.  “Jnminnnt,” he murmured in response to it.

“You catch that?” he heard Athos inquire, flatly, and felt the shift of Porthos's hand as he shrugged in reply.

“Jus..need…min…ute,” Aramis repeated, licking his lips as he pressed his head back into the pillow as though he could force the lingering ache out into the feathers.

“Easy,” Porthos repeated, as Aramis gave up his effort and tried again to cover his eyes with a hand that was caught and laid gently on his chest. 

The gesture registered as odd, even through the distracting ache, and Aramis forced his eyes open again.  Though barely a slit, it was enough to make out the bandage encasing his hand, and his brow furrowed.  _What…?_

Alarm opened his eyes wider as he fixed his gaze upon Porthos.  “’t happened…?” he croaked.

“Turns out your gut was spot on, as usual,” Porthos answered softly, in deference to the pain behind his friend’s eyes.   “Was something off with that pistol… Barrel exploded.”

Aramis closed his eyes again as he processed the news.  Licking his lips as he thought, he attempted to piece together his memory—Adele, the maid returning the pistol, it feeling…off.  He’d decided to fire it… _right?_ Then flash and smoke and he was landing in the dirt, his eyes stinging from the smoke, his head spinning, and then…nothing.

Aramis pressed his head back into the pillow once more, as much in an effort to quell his rising fear as to disperse the ache behind his eyes.  He’d seen men lose fingers, eyes, ears, when a carelessly loaded pistol’s barrel exploded.  _You’ve seen men walk away with nary a scratch, too,_ he reminded himself, though it provided little comfort.  The bandage on his hand ensured he had not walked away without _some_ damage.  So the question was how much damage had been done and did he still have a career?

 _Just ask,_ Aramis told himself, but he couldn’t quite convince his mouth to actually form the words.  So, instead, he focused inward and tried to assess the damage himself.  It was difficult to push past the incessant ache in his head, but once he had, Aramis felt the sting of burns on his face and neck and a few shallow cuts.   

 _Not too bad, I think,_ he assured himself.  It may have been a false memory induced by false hope, but he seemed to recall dropping his head as the barrel burst, and thus his hat had caught the worse of it.  _I expect I have it to thank for my vision, as well,_ he then mused, abruptly registering that he had, indeed, peered at his bandaged hand with two, undamaged eyes.    _Ears are still there, too,_ he determined, smiling a little.    _So, not horribly disfigured, at least.  That’ll be helpful if…_ The smile faded.

The bandage around his hand was tight and seemed to muffle whatever pain he was sure he should be feeling there.  _Burned?_ He couldn’t tell, and it troubled him.   _Perhaps there is nothing to feel…_ he couldn’t help consider, and he swallowed hard at the thought.  His hand would have gotten the worse of it, and if the damage were bad enough…

Needing to know, Aramis attempted to move fingers he hoped still existed.  A burst of fiery pain raced through his hand as it twitched, stealing the air from his lungs.  But he smiled, all the same.   Whatever the damage was, he still had his hand—that, at least, was certain.  _But what of my fingers?_

He tried again to move them.  Biting his lip as fire laced through his hand once more, Aramis attempted to concentrate on the pain, attempted to determine where, exactly, it originated and what sort of pain it was.   But it was no use.  He was too tired and his head ached too much and the fire burned too hot when he twitched his fingers…

“Stop moving it!” Porthos grumbled as he carded his hand through Aramis’s curls again.   His voice sounded grim, and it made Aramis swallow hard against the dread settling in the pit of his stomach.   

Forcing his eyes open again, he found Athos had joined Porthos by the bed, and now both peered down at him serious and glum—and his stomach sank.   He wanted to close his eyes again, to sleep and run away from it all.  But, instead, he fixed his gaze on Athos—he would be more stoic about it, whatever the news was, and that would make it easier for Aramis to be stoic, as well. 

“Damage?” he finally forced out. 

Athos gaze flickered to his hand, and then back again.  “Between the burns from the powder and cuts from the splintered barrel, it’s not pretty sight,” he announced, just as matter-of-factly as Aramis had expected.  “But…” Aramis felt a surge of hope.  He swallowed hard to push it down, not daring to let it take hold.  “And only God knows how, you managed not to break any bones or lose any fingers.”

The relief shuddered through Aramis with enough force that Porthos frowned in concern as he tucked the blankets more snugly around his wounded friend.  Aramis smiled his appreciation at the effort, though it had not been cold affecting him. 

“The surgeon says you’ll still have full use of it—the hand,” Porthos added, in response to Aramis’s smile.  “Provided you give the burns and cuts a proper chance to heal,” he continued. “And that means, quit moving it!” 

Aramis nodded, still smiling as relief drained away the fear-driven adrenaline that had kept him awake.  Eyes drooping closed, he relaxed back into his pillow, content to slip back into sleep.  But before he could, his thoughts drifted to Adele and the pistol, and his brow furrowed.

“Aramis?”  Porthos asked in response.  “You hurtin’?  Need something?”

Aramis shook his head.  He was hurting, but that wasn’t the problem.  “Just thinkin’,” he murmured drowsily.

“Well, stop,” Athos ordered.  “You need sleep, not thought, at the moment.”

“He’s right,” Porthos agreed.  “You’re in no state for thinking clearly right now, anyway.”

Aramis smiled, nodding slightly, but kept thinking all the same. 

“All right!” Porthos huffed. “What is it, then?”

“I was just wondering, can’t help thinking,” Aramis murmured disjointedly, too sleepy now for coherency.  “Maybe…not an accident?”

“Mmmm,” he heard Athos hum, before Porthos added, “the Cardinal, you thinking?”

“Mmmm,” Aramis responded, echoing Athos.  “Maybe, if he found out…”  He paused for a jaw-cracking yawn, then continued, “Perhaps didn’t even know who he hoping to hurt…”

Porthos frowned, before attempting to translate the sleepy murmuring.  “You mean, you’re thinking that maybe the Cardinal found the pistol and realized Adele had a lover, and then sabotaged it to get revenge?”

Aramis yawned again as he replied, “Never…really…know…guess,” before falling into a dream of Adele.  He frowned as the Cardinal wandered into the image and glared at him, smirking ominously as he wrapped a hand around Adele’s throat a pulled her to him. 

Aramis flailed, trying to reach her, but unable to get his feet to move.   His breath quickened with desperation, his heart began to pound furiously, but then a large hand carded through his hair.

“Ssh.  No more thinkin’, just sleep.”  It was hardly more than a whisper, but it blew through the images of the Cardinal and Adele as though they were no more than smoke, quickly dispersed by the wind, and Aramis sighed, contentedly, trusting the hand in his hair and the voice on the breeze to keep him safe as he drifted deeper into dreams where ghosts could not find him.

The end.


End file.
